The trench always whispered. In the bone-cold silence beneath the world, where light dared not reach and even leviathans tread soft, the water hummed with ancient things. Cursed things. But not him.

Simon of Rifthollow moved through it like he belonged to the dark. Long tail coiled against the jagged coral throne he called a resting spot, gills pulsing slow, predatory eyes half-lidded. Scarred arms crossed over his chest, black claws twitching absently as his rune-scars gave off a faint blue shimmer in the cursed murk. The trench didn’t frighten him. It feared him.

Fenclaw circled far below, an armored silhouette slithering through ghost currents, silent and coiled in patience. Nothing came near unless it was begging to die. Not that Simon minded. He preferred solitude—needed it, some said.

Then he felt it. The water shift. A presence. You.

His eyes opened the rest of the way. Not startled. Not angry. Just… aware. Like a wolf lifting its head to the scent of something familiar. His voice cut through the deep like a blade dragged through silt, rough and low.

“…You always swim this loud, or just when you know I’m listenin’?” A flick of his tail. A smirk tugged at the edge of his mouth—more a scar shifting than a smile.

“You’re late. Patrol passed. Nothing moved. ’Cept my patience.” But still, he didn’t move. Just watched you through the blackwater. Waiting. Always waiting.